


A Substantial Favour

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Being Human (UK), Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When George and Mitchell need to get out of London in a hurry, Mitchell calls on an old friend with a reputation for ingenuity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Substantial Favour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glinda/gifts).



“Right, I think this is it.” Mitchell stuffed the scrap of paper he’d been consulting into his pocket. “Now, I just turn around three times, widdershins.” 

George frowned as Mitchell began to rotate. “Widdershins is anti-clockwise, Mitchell,” he offered.

“I knew that.” Mitchell stopped with a scowl, then stretched his arms out to the sides, squeezed his eyes shut, and turned around three times. When he came to a stop, his eyes snapped open. 

George stared, and tried to think of a polite way to ask if his friend had gone mad. Finally, he settled on, “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here? It’s just that, with those other... people looking for us, I—“

“You didn’t have to come.” Mitchell’s eyes darted around the rubbish-strewn dead end. “Where is he?” He tore the lid off a bin to look inside. 

“Who?” George began to develop a plan for what to do if his friend indeed had gone barmy. If they could survive long enough to get out of London, some country air might do him good. “Who are we looking for, Mitchell?”

“An old friend.” Mitchell kicked at the pile of rubbish stacked against the brick wall. “He owes me a favour.”

“A substantial favour, if I recall correctly. And I unfailingly do.” Perched atop the bin Mitchell had just checked sat a man in a long coat and impressive boots, sporting one of the most eclectic hair styles George had ever seen: short and white in front, followed by a cascade of fine braids. “Hello, John Mitchell.”

“De Carabas, you bastard.” Mitchell flung his arms around the stranger to deliver a quick embrace. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

“I am highly reliable, and unfailingly loyal to those who can afford the privilege.” The man, de Carabas, presumably, raised an eyebrow. “As you know.”

“As if I could forget. It’s good to see you.”

George shifted uncomfortably, and the man’s eyes snapped to him. “Is this yours?” he asked.

“My friend George.” Mitchell waved in his direction with a smile.

The man stalked toward George and circled him slowly, like a cat assessing its next meal. “There’s something about him.”

“You used to think there was something about me,” Mitchell said.

“There is.” De Carabas turned with a swirl of his coat. “You’re a vampire.”

“And you’re an unrepentant trickster with a propensity for resurrection. What of it?” Mitchell asked, as casually as if this stranger had not announced his secret to a London street. 

A delighted smile temporarily rendered de Carabas less sinister. “I’ve missed our talks,” he said. 

“Me too.”

George looked between them, open mouthed, and then, realizing that no one planned to acknowledge him, cleared this throat. “You two old friends, then?” 

“The Marquis de Carabas.” The man sketched a brief bow. “I’d claim to be at your service, but I doubt you could afford it.”

“Listen.” Mitchell settled his hand on de Carabas’ shoulder and leaned in conspiratorially. “I’d love to stay and chat, but George and I are in a bit of a tight spot. We need to get out of the city.”

“Hm. Is London Above not the haven you imagined it to be?”

“I never said it was a haven.”

“And yet you seem to prefer it,” de Carabas drawled. “You realize that if you need to hide, you could hardly hope for a better place than with us.”

Mitchell glanced over at George with a deep frown, then shook his head. “I’m not taking him Below.”

“I see.” De Carabas narrowed his eyes at George, looking him up and down slowly, then returned his attention to Mitchell. “Well. If you don’t mind dodging the Black Friars, I can get you passage on the River Fleet up to Hampstead.”

“That’s perfect,” Mitchell said. “We can get clear from there.”

“The Fleet? The Fleet is underground,” George felt compelled to point out. “It’s not a proper river. How can you possibly travel on it?”

Mitchell and de Carabas shot him identical pitying glances.

“Give me an hour to make the arrangements.” De Carabas clapped Mitchell on the shoulder. “I’ll meet you at Temple to see you off. I trust this will discharge my debt?”

“I’d consider it a substantial favour, yes.”

“Pleasure doing business, as always, Mitchell.”

“Marquis.” 

The two shook hands, and when Mitchell turned back to George, de Carabas had disappeared from view as quickly as he’d arrived. 

George allowed himself a few seconds to try to process what he’d seen, before giving it up as a bad job. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” he asked. 

“Don’t see a reason to.” Mitchell adjusted the collar of his jacket, looking anywhere but at George. “We’re getting out of town—what more do you need to know?”

“What?” George tried waving a hand around the street to indicate the extent of the problem. “Who? How?”

“Leave it, George.” Mitchell shoved his hands in his pockets and began to walk. “You know, for a werewolf, you’re remarkably intolerant of the inexplicable.”

“I’m--? I’m not intolerant!” George sputtered as he hurried to catch up.

“You are a bit.”

“I never— “

“Sure you do.” Mitchell’s good mood seemed to be rapidly returning as George’s protests rose in volume and intensity. 

“Really, Mitchell-- ”

“Come on.” Mitchell threw his arm around George with a grin. “We’ve an underground boat to catch.”


End file.
